Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  “At least, considering everything you went through, not immediately,” Zilpah said with an exaggerated sympathy that she hoped would defuse my aunt’s vitriol.

  When Abdul arrived carrying a tray of tea, even I noticed the pot was of china, not silver, and that bread and butter were all that accompanied the beverage. He began to arrange the plates on the small table in front of Aunt Bellore, a space far too small to lay out a proper spread. Normally Zilpah would have suggested we retire to the hall to” eat, but she seemed determined to go on with the clumsy arrangement. The conversation did not continue until Abdul, after doing his best to find a place for everything, had taken up his station in the vestibule.

  “Now what will you do with yourself?” Aunt Bellore prodded.

  “I thought I might teach at the Jewish Girls' School,” I answered stiffly.

  “What are you trying to do, make yourself completely unmarriageable?” Zilpah opened her mouth, but Aunt Bellore's next volley silenced her. “Not many women in your position would stand by such a difficult stepdaughter the way you have, Zilpah, but it is time Dinah came down off her cloud. Unless she becomes an observant young woman with modest habits, she can look forward to being a spinster who is always pitied and lives off the charity of first her parents and later her brothers.”

  “No daughter of mine need fear that end!” my father bellowed. “She is richer in her own right than you are, my dear sister.”

  What did he mean? Aunt Bellore lived in a mansion that was easily a match for Theatre Road. She had inherited more jewels and fine furniture than the brothers. Her husband had a key position in the Sassoon enterprises. Even so, she sputtered, then whitened.

  I pretended not to have noticed. “Aunt Bellore is right, Papa. If I worked at the Jewish Girls' School, everybody would be reminded of my predicament. My first duty is to the family.”

  “That is better,” my aunt replied in an artificially soothing tone.

  Zilpah and my father exchanged puzzled glances.

  “We will talk about your future later.” My father stood up. “Now I must return to work.”

  “Good, for I have an idea that shall please each of you,” I said enigmatically to his back as he left the room.

  Several days passed before I had the opportunity to present my plan to my father. For some reason he was away before I came downstairs in the morning and home either so late that I did not want to approach the subject or too surrounded by the other children for me to have him to myself. I might have hinted that I wished to speak with him privately, but my goal was to catch him off-guard. The thought that he might have been avoiding me did occur, but I was not daunted. The important factor was to present my concept in a businesslike fashion and, no matter how provoked I might be by his response, to counter his concerns with logic, not emotion.

  The seed of this idea had germinated ever since I decided I could not remain in Darjeeling, yet I had not been certain how the shoot would develop until Aunt Bellore's vile attack provided the fertilizer. My first plan, to teach school, was flawed, for there would be many obstacles to overcome for little gain. My second, which had congealed as Aunt Bellore fumed and scoffed, had layers of possibilities. The only difficulty lay in convincing my father to agree to set it in motion.

  After five days of waiting, I finally caught him at breakfast.

  “Good morning, Dinah,” he said, beaming. “How pleasant to see you up this early.”

  “Good morning, Papa,” I replied, trying not to let on that he knew that I knew we had been playing a cat-and-mouse game. “Ever since Darjeeling I have found it difficult to sleep late.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Silas had a custom of awakening at dawn to see the snowy peaks.”

  Papa crunched his toast nervously. Any mention of Silas was more discomfiting for him than for me. I busied myself with my fruit cup until he wiped his chin and asked, “Well, what is on your mind, Dinah?”

  “I would like to discuss my prospects for the future.”

  “Of course, whenever you like,” he said, shifting in his seat as though he were about to rise.

  “Now would be convenient for me.”

  “Well . . .” he demurred as Zilpah glided into the room. He smiled at her, then glanced back at my frown. “I have a splendid idea,” he said, glancing up at his wife. “Would you object if I took Dinah to lunch, my dear?”

  “Not at all, except you promised I could have the phaeton.”

  “If you don't mind, Dinah, I'll send the office jaun at noon,” he said, apologizing for the common vehicle he used for getting around the city.

  “I'd like that,” I said buoyantly. “You know the funny poem, don't you?”

  “I don't believe I do,” he said, rising to his feet.

  I grinned up at him, and quoted, “ 'Who did not know that office jaun of pale pomona green/ With its drab and yellow lining, and picked out black between.' “

  My father laughed. “You are in a fine mood today.” And before I could ask where we would be going, he hurried from the room.

  The syce drove me to meet my father at the Castellazzo Brothers' restaurant, a place I had heard about but had never been to before. I shivered with anticipation when I saw my father waiting in front of a colonnaded building that later became one of Calcutta's most famous restaurants, Firpo's.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sassoon,” greeted the burly man who opened the door. “Your usual table, sir?”

  “Today I would prefer something on the veranda, Mario,” Papa said under his breath.

  We were led upstairs to the corner table nearest the Grand Hotel. Without even asking, a bottle of Scotch and two glasses were placed before us.

  “Does he expect you to drink the whole bottle?” I asked.

  “See this mark on the label? At the end of the meal the waiter will measure the difference with his thumb, you'll see.”

  “Do you come here often?”

  “My brothers and I frequent the place. I have never brought Zilpah here,” he said, knowing this would please me enormously. I hadn't felt so close to him since our trip to Patna, more than half my lifetime ago.

  “Where do you usually sit?”

  “Downstairs, in the front section. I like to see who is going and coming.” He opened his menu and suggested omelets and potatoes. Then he straightened his back and gave me his full attention. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, we were talking about how you might occupy yourself during this, ah, awkward period. Knowing how much you like school, I was thinking you might like to go off to one near Simla and—”

  I cut him off. “No, I have had enough of the hills.”

  He leaned back and rolled his neck as if to relieve some stiffness. “We might consider England. More and more young ladies your age are continuing their studies, and as you know, some British young women go to school abroad.”

  I shook my head. “I don't want to leave India like a dog with its tail between its legs. After all, I have not done anything wrong.”

  “No, you haven't,” he agreed somberly, “but you always liked your studies.”

  “I want to be more useful.”

  “That is not necessary, my child. Just be kind to Zilpah and the others, and all will work out.”

  “But I feel so ineffectual,” I said; then, realizing my voice had become too strident, I cleared my throat and continued quickly before my father could offer another platitude, “I would like to be able to assist you more directly.”

  “And I would like nothing better than to have your charming company.”

  “I could help with business.”

  He patted my hand. “That is not your place, although I appreciate the thought behind the offer.”

  “If I were your son, wouldn't you be preparing me to follow in your footsteps?”

  “Yes, certainly, but you are not a son. Soon you will have a family of your own.”

  “That is unlikely, at least for a year. What am I to do until then? You don't know what it's
like to be married and independent one moment and then find yourself back in the nursery.”

  “Dinah, I want you to know something . . .” He swallowed hard, then continued, “I admire what you did. Another woman might have lived with a man like that to have the comforts he could provide. It took courage to come home.”

  Tears blinded me momentarily, but they did not betray me as I said softly, “Thank you, Papa.”

  “Flora Raymond would have been proud of you as well.”

  The mention of my grandmother's name caused my spirits to deflate further, but my father pretended not to notice my glum expression and prattled on. “She was a generous person, as was your grandfather. They helped support the synagogue and took on many charity cases. We'll never know how many people he treated without payment or how many others he assisted financially after he cured their health problems. He used to say that the worst disease is poverty.” My father shook his head and sighed. “There is not much left besides the Lower Chitpur Road house and clinic. Dr. Hyam is paying off his debt, so there will be additional income for a few years. Not including that, you and your brothers should clear almost five thousand rupees each.”

  Five thousand! Now I would finally have some capital of my own, without even considering the dowry that was under my father's jurisdiction now.

  “I thought that would cheer you up,” he said, winking at me.

  “Nevertheless,” I began cautiously, “that doesn't occupy my time. I still want to work for you, Papa.”

  “Now, Dinah, let's be reasonable,” he said with a benign smile.

  I am being reasonable! I seethed silently, using the energy that bubbled under the surface to force my voice into a lower, more masculine register. “When I was in Darjeeling, I helped balance the Luddy Tea Company ledgers. I found errors the previous man had made and tidied them up in short order.”

  “Where did you learn how to do that sort of work?”

  “Don't you remember I also once assisted Dr. Hyam with his accounts?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It is only simple mathematics with a dose of common sense. I know the Sassoon books would be much more complex. That is why I thought I might commence with your personal ones—or even the household accounts. Mostly, though, I would like to assist you. I could write out your correspondence and do little services to give you more time for matters of greater consequence.” I took a quick breath that did not give him time to intervene. “The best part of my plan is that nobody need know about it. I can work at home, and so it will not be a public position like teaching would be.”

  The waiter served us large oval platters each containing an enormous omelet swimming in a tomato sauce. Vegetable florets decorated the top, and a bowl of crisp potato sticks wrapped in a white napkin was served alongside. I cut into the spongy yellow egg. “How thick it is! And yet so light!”

  “I thought you would find this enjoyable.” My father had a bemused expression as he watched me. Ignoring his own plate, he took several more gulps of his drink. “Dinah, I do not want to disappoint you—and I want you to know the generosity of your offer impresses me—but I just cannot think of a place for you.”

  I swallowed my mouthful and said in a flat voice, “When Jonah and Asher have finished school, you will find places for them, won't you?”

  My father attacked his omelet with an exaggerated gusto that prevented him having to respond. I did not mind, for I knew it always took a few minutes of contemplation before he could change his mind. In the meantime, the fashionable gentlemen who had filled the room fascinated me. Most were British officials or businessmen. There were only a few women scattered about.

  My father put down his utensils with a clatter that startled me from my reverie. “I suppose I cannot expect you to sit on a shelf until the next opportunity arises, can I?” His eyes twinkled as he watched my face melt with disbelief. “As you know, I am preparing for a trip to China. Do you have any comprehension of what that entails? The crates purchased at auction this autumn must be graded, priced, and accounted for. Shipping preparations must be made for the different batches being allocated to different destinations. Accounts from last season must be reconciled, so when I meet the brokers face-to-face they can remedy any shortfalls. Of course, we have employees who manage these duties, and I oversee the ledgers. Still, if you are as good as you say with figures, an extra eye might ferret out a mistake that another has overlooked. Also, some of our systems have become clumsy as the business has grown. We need to develop more efficient methods. I am looking forward to your contribution.” He framed his last words in the form of a challenge.

  All at once I was not so certain I was doing the right thing. The family trade both perplexed and intrigued me. Why had I pushed my father so hard? Was it out of boredom, a desire to win my father's approval as an adult woman, or was I merely curious as to how Sassoon and Company functioned? With the typical impetuousness of youth, my deliberations lasted only seconds, and I replied energetically, “When do I begin?”

  “Calcutta is not Patna and you are no longer a young child so I cannot take you with me everywhere, but next week I will begin by having you accompany me whenever possible so you can see the flow. After that, you can complete your paperwork at home. You may use the desk in my study, but—”

  The waiters began clearing our plates, so he broke off and finished his second scotch until they had finished. I was imagining myself working at the Clive desk when I remembered ruefully that I would never see it again.

  “Please allow me to explain this to Zilpah,” he said, bringing me back to the matter at hand.

  “You do not think she will approve.”

  “She will if she is approached correctly.”

  A few years ago I might have resented that she needed to be consulted, but now I could see that my father knew what he was doing. Zilpah had a stern and unyielding demeanor, but she was not mercurial or unfair, so I was certain he would be successful. More important, my brief association with Silas had taught me something about the union between a man and a woman. In our few weeks together we had begun to develop a feeling for when the other might be receptive to an idea. As soon as Euclid had sensed that Silas was developing a tie with me, he had feared his own would loosen. Now I realized that I had understood Euclid's position so keenly because when Zilpah first entered our household, I had resented her bond with my father.

  Leaning back against the cane chair, I was suffused by the pleasure of rational thought triumphing over childish emotion. I should be glad for that time with Silas, I decided. Not many girls had that sort of firsthand education. I only hoped its price had not been too high.

  “I really am glad to see you so happy today,” my father said with relief in his voice.

  I looked at him with luminous eyes. “You have made me happy, Papa,” I said, meaning every word.

  22

  Coincidences delight me. I feel that if I have thought about something, and then it happens, that I have somehow pulled the mystical cords that control the weave of the universe. A few days after our lunch at Castellazzo Brothers', a huge crate was delivered to Theatre Road.

  “Come see, Dinah. It's for you,” Ruby called merrily.

  I could not help but stare at my little sister. She was not yet eleven, but in the short time I had been with Silas, her body had matured with alarming speed. Her high, round breasts bobbed as she jumped with excitement, and her skin had taken on the oily texture of a much older girl. Even so, she was not the mental equal of Seti, half her age.

  I allowed her to take my hand and lead me to the stableyard, where the syce and bearer awaited my instructions. “It comes from Darjeeling,” Abdul said. “Do you want us to open it?”

  I nodded. They pulled the metal bands apart. What could be inside? Half of Silas' library could have fitted into the box. A panel fell away to reveal a mysterious object wrapped like a shroud in long lengths of bright Nepalese fabric. Ruby and Abdul worked together to unwind it. As soon
as sunlight illuminated an edge, I realized it was the silver-and-ivory desk I had been thinking about when I imagined working for my father.

  “Oh, Dinah!” Ruby cooed. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my whole life!” She brushed her hand across the inlaid-rosewood top, then tugged on the intricate pull of the top drawer. “What is this?” She held up an envelope with Silas' distinctive thunderbolt crest.

  25 December 1890

  My dear Dinah,

  On this day when people of the Christian faith exchange gifts, I wish to return what properly belongs to you. I trust you will not begrudge me the pleasure of envisioning you sitting beside this bureau now and in the future. From time to time, if you think of me, please write to tell me where your life leads you.

  As William Wordsworth writes, “Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.”

  As ever,

  Your friend,

  Silas

  For a moment I felt a longing for him, and as soon as the Clive bureau was placed in my room, I took pen in hand first to thank him for his generosity and also to tell him of my chance to work for my father. In less than a week he replied with an enthusiastic commendation.

  A month later I responded.

  15 February, 1891

  Dear Silas,

  My father, who thought his bookkeeping systems were so complex, has been surprised—as you were as well—to discover that I have not had any difficulty deciphering his papers. At first I was tempted to explain there are few mysteries in recording and reconciling figures, but some hidden sense warned me not to belittle my contribution. Don't you agree that if one does not make what one knows seem inscrutable, one's work has less worth?

  With the beginning of the new year I was able to review last season's ledgers, thinking how to refine or simplify the systems used. I offered suggestions to my father, and he gave me a free hand to organize them. While I appreciate his trust, I am concerned that something might happen that I cannot anticipate now that will ruin my plan. On the other hand, if I blindly copy the old methods—even after its weaknesses have been revealed to me—I would not be doing my job conscientiously.